


Closeted

by sashach



Series: Evanstan by Anie [8]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF
Genre: English translation, M/M, with quotes from Still Life with Woodpecker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashach/pseuds/sashach
Summary: This is a story about an infatuation or a crush.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anie/gifts).
  * A translation of [Evanstan短篇合集](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884074) by [Anie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anie/pseuds/Anie). 



> Translator’s note:  
> The meaning of the Chinese title 见光 is along the line of out in the open, not hidden, visible; and I decided that _Closeted_ would be a better interpretation in the context of the story. This has been sitting in my file for god knows how long, and I’ve edited it for god knows how many times. It’ll never be perfect, considering my language proficiency, so here it is. As usual, this translation is not proofread, any mistakes are my own. I only hope the translation did justice to Anie’s story.

What’s it like when you have an infatuation for someone?

Every eye contact feels as though your heart is being kissed by infinitesimal waves of electric current, snap, snap, diminutive fireworks circulate through your blood and turn into blazing flames in your body. It’s like the cold wave that spreads over from Virginia to New York, snowstorm wreaking havoc and strong winds relentless. Or perhaps it’s like being injected with stimulants, your heart pounds wildly, your pupils dilate by twenty percent, your breaths turn quick and shallow, and your brain a white blank instantly. Like asthma and fever erupting simultaneously.

And a crush is founded on all of the above, repressed and closeted; away from daylight.

_**But love never fails.** _

Sebastian’s cellphone vibrates when he receives the text message, it rubs slightly against the wooden table when it buzzes. He picks up his phone and types _And never dies_ in the reply box.

Should he include an emoji? Sebastian scrolls through rows and rows of emojis then deletes his own reply alphabet by alphabet; what’s left is just the blinking cursor.

Sebastian stares at the screen as it dims and suddenly feels he’s sick and tired of a life like this. The never-changing Americano in his hand, the bustling throng of people in the streets, the blinking city lights in the night, the suffocating hot wind in summer. He feels like he’s immersed in boiling water; his schedule crammed with work decided through e-mails and calls.

But he’s always too lazy to try something different, not even a sip of espresso con panna. The cream seems overly sweet, sticking on the cup.

That’s how much Sebastian detests the sweltering summer, even the humming of the AC agitates him.

And the vibration of the cellphone every now and then. One after another, the messages go into the missed box, and Sebastian would then open them one by one. He’s received many messages like these, different contents ranging from “hi” at the beginning to “miss u”; time drags on like summer. Reading text messages is the least demanding thing for Sebastian. He mulls over the first alphabet to the last punctuation, as if he’s an expert in code cracking. Eventually, he pauses at the name of the sender.

The never-changing Chris Evans.

 

He gets messages from Chris all the time: after his shower, after watching a movie, after dinner. Or in the morning when he wakes up, clad in crumpled PJ, eyes heavy with sleep. He would unlock his cellphone and try to focus his bleary eyes on the words that were sent a few hours ago, thanks to the time difference.

Occasionally he would reply a couple of them with a simple “haha” or “yeah, that’s cool.” He doesn’t know why but he can’t find seem to think of a reply when he reads the messages in his inbox. He can’t even come up with a joke that would elicit a knowing smile. He should have gotten used to it by now; a co-worker who he’s been working with for six, seven years sends him text messages, it’s absolutely normal.

But not to Sebastian. He’s nervous, he needs oxygen, and his brain is a blank. Every word seems as clumsy as one would be on a leaking hot air balloon, holding a glass of celery juice with an extra pinch of salt.

Chris sends him text messages on various subject matters.

_**How’s the weather?** _

_**Have you bought the latest sneakers?** _

_**Do you like dogs?** _

_**Bought a new game, the controller doesn’t seem to fit my hands.** _

Or he might be watching a Patriots game, and Sebastian’s phone would buzz now and again with messages that say “score.”

_**Turn on the tv. Tonight’s game is fucking awesome!**_ said Chris in the message.

_I wasn’t interested in football before I knew you_ , thought Sebastian. But he still turned on the tv and, amidst the passionate commentary, texted Chris: _You’re right, Tom Brady’s performance is amazing_.

Sebastian likes to copy Chris’ messages and put them in his Notes, arranging them in order, as though composing a long poem. And then locks them with a passcode.

Sebastian doesn’t want them to be seen; it’s a universe made up of an array of secrets. Like Sebastian’s little thoughts that could only be hidden under the trees.

 

The weather outside is gloomy, heavy clouds hanging low, wind surging every now and then, the cars in the streets honk longer than necessary.

From the moment Sebastian walks in, sits down on the soft leather couch, creating creases with every of his movements, his cellphone on the table has not stopped vibrating.

_**How’s New York lately?** _

_**Dodger has come over from Boston, I’ve to get up early every morning to feed him.** _

_**Have you bought the latest sneakers? Better not. It’s fucking terrible. The quality/price ratio is lower than the valley floor of the Grand Canyon.** _

_**How’s your cold?** _

_**Playing frisbee with Dodger. Stupid dog has gone missing. Should I go find him?** _

__Chris’ messages consist of descriptions, questions, and exclamations, but all his question marks don’t seem to be waiting for a reply._ _

__That’s how Chris is. Sebastian is pretty sure he sends the messages to a group, waiting to chat with anyone who would reply. And Sebastian Stan is definitely not in that long wait list. He’s that boring; can’t even come up with something witty._ _

__Perhaps Anthony could have an engaging chat with Chris; the man could make an entire room howl with laughter with just a flick of his hand. Anyway, the “you” in Chris’ messages probably means “you all.”_ _

__He likes to chat, likes chatting to people he’s familiar with. Sebastian likes to chat, too; but not to Chris._ _

__Sebastian finishes the last dregs of his coffee, blinks and stares out the window to look at the pedestrians passing by; heads low, tapping on their cellphones. The bitterness of the coffee lingers at the tip of his tongue; he picks up his phone and types _I’m in LA_._ _

__Sends._ _

__And stares nervously at the screen. The messages that have been coming in one after another stop abruptly. By the time Sebastian’s eyes return to the screen, two new messages pop up suddenly._ _

_strong >Jesus, you’re not in New York?_

_**Don’t go anywhere. Wait for me.** _

__Sebastian looks at the messages, the image of Chris’ surprised expression at his reply pops up in his mind. He likes to picture everything in exaggeration, such as Chris breaking a mug or something._ _

__He’s wanted to reply _aren’t you going to look for your dog_ , but decides to put down his phone after consideration._ _

__Chris has asked to him to wait, so he’ll wait, even though he hasn’t told Chris where he is. But Chris always knows where he’d go._ _

__Sebastian is in LA, he never goes anywhere._ _

__

__Sebastian doesn’t know how long he’s waited; the background music in the coffee shop has gone through several tracks, they’re now playing E minor nocturne. It’s fucking unsuitable to play that in this weather, thinks Sebastian, he’s falling asleep._ _

__It finally starts to pour outside, the vapor hiding in the clouds explodes into raindrops, plopping onto colorful umbrellas. Watching the little splashes of raindrops hitting on the window pane, Sebastian wonders if he should give espresso con panna a try._ _

__That’s when Chris dashes in._ _

__He’s wearing a dark blue baseball cap, sunglasses (even though it’s rather stupid to wear sunglasses in a gloomy weather, thinks Sebastian as he touches the pair of sunglasses hanging on the edge of his backpack), simple plain colored t-shirt, short pants and sneakers. He looks as if he’s just got off from the treadmill in the gym, or finished a set of dumbbells lifting. The arms underneath the shirt sleeves are perfect and graceful, and when he takes off his sunglasses, his biceps almost split the seams of that poor t-shirt._ _

__And Sebastian feels warmer at the sight of it. He jiggles the paper cup only to realize he’s finished his coffee._ _

__“I didn’t know you’re in LA,” Chris sits down across from him, eyes beaming. “To be honest, I was really surprised.”_ _

__Chris’ t-shirt is wet from the rain, tiny droplets drip from his hair down his face and land on the collar, spreading into dark water stains. He wipes his face. He knows Sebastian comes to this Starbucks whenever he’s in LA. It’s obscure enough and quiet._ _

__“A hard earned break,” Sebastian turns the paper cup in his hand, licking his slightly dry lips._ _

__Chris arches his brow, gets up to go to the counter and returns with two cups of coffee. He pushes one of them to Sebastian._ _

__Sebastian doesn’t drink it immediately. He turns the cup; it’s obviously heavier than an empty cup, then his fingers stroke the surface where the name is written._ _

__Two cups of coffee._ _

__Two Mr. Evans._ _

__Sebastian gazes at the “Evans”; the handwriting is the usual style of a coffee shop, hurried and illegible. He recalls Chris’ signature, one circle after another, like ripples across the water surface, the “s” at the end a fish tail._ _

__“If I write my name on you, will you get it tattooed?” Chris asked him one day out of the blue; he’d signed a little Chris Evans on Sebastian’s arm with a marker pen._ _

___That’s too much._ Sebastian rolled his eyes and said, “I don’t do tats.” He went home afterward and took a long time to wash off that little signature. He stared at the patch of skin where Chris had drawn; red from all the scrubbing, then in the misty mirror he noticed his face was just as red._ _

__

__Sebastian’s lips come into contact with warm foam when he takes a sip of his coffee and he realizes it is cappuccino without cream; a velvety river of saccharine sweetness. And Chris knits his brows tight into a frown._ _

__“You mind?” Embarrassed, Chris pushes the cup of coffee before him a little. “I got them mixed up.”_ _

__Why would he mind? Sebastian raises his brows and takes the cup that should be his. The subdued flavor drowns the sweetness of the cappuccino. For the first time, he’s grateful for that small opening on the lid._ _

__Chris’ lips were on it just now._ _

__Sebastian wants to taste the coffee thoroughly, then taste Chris’ lips to see if the flavor of the coffee is still on them. But forget it; he can’t promise he won’t laugh when Chris’ beard scratches him._ _

__He sometimes wonders what Chris tastes like._ _

__Rain-washed soil, an open-air barbecue, strong tobacco, sharp whiskey, ice-cream with an extra drizzle of blueberry sauce, bacon in a sandwich. Or plain cheese, gooey and lingering._ _

__

__What’s it like when you have an infatuation for someone?_ _

__Sebastian finds the question too tough to answer. He thinks about the question sometimes, when he looks at Chris. It might sound a little mushy, but it feels like listening to _Moditwa Dziewicy_ on the balcony in a late afternoon, alone with his thoughts._ _

__And then he would chuckle when he recalls the prologue of _The Still Life of a Woodpecker_ (he swears he loves the book; Tom Robbins is a genius): Which is harder, trying to read _The Brothers Karamazov_ while listening to Stevie Wonder records or hunting for Easter eggs on a typewriter keyboard?_ _

__All right._ _

__Under Chris’ puzzled gaze, Sebastian has to admit that in comparison to the choice of the dignity of a Remington SL3, his question about infatuation is stupidly childish._ _

__Too bad he wasn’t that red-haired princess, and he didn’t have a destined red-haired lover to rescue, let alone a royal romance and Camel cigarettes. Sebastian has spent quite a long time chewing gum to finally quit smoking._ _

__When they were on set, it could easily take up an entire day. The set was no mall, there wasn’t sufficient supply of cigarettes, and Chris would always go to Sebastian to get a smoke._ _

__“Fuck you, Chris,” when he woke up on his deck chair, Sebastian found that Chris had helped himself to the last cigarette on him, leaving a crumpled cigarette box in his pocket. He couldn’t help but flip a finger at Chris, who was in his Captain America costume, smirking with the cigarette between his lips. They still had one night scene to shoot, and Sebastian had dark eye shadows painted around his eyes; the sight became ridiculously funny. Chris burst out laughing, an exaggerated one. He looked as if he would slip off the chair at any moment. His smooth chin lifted up, even the cigarette between his lips was shaking._ _

__“We’re going to start shooting and you’re smoking,” Sebastian was wearing his mask; his voice was muffled._ _

__“What?” Chris looked at him, his eyes wet with tears from laughing, luminous like stars under the bright studio lights. The cigarette was now a tiny glimmer burning between his fingers instead. He shrugged and said jokingly, “It’s not a kissing scene.”_ _

__Sebastian’s costume wasn’t too breathable, and he was wearing a suffocating mask. Yet here was Chris, standing in front of him, a tiny glow of light between his fingers, but Sebastian felt as though he was looking at the sun._ _

__

__“I wanted to take you out for lunch, but it looks like we’re gonna be here for a while,” Chris frowns as he looks at the rain pouring outside, intensifying. He seems frustrated, fingertips drumming on the table. “I have a suggestion… Yeah, you don’t have to agree…”_ _

__“I don’t agree,” before Chris can tell him his ingenious idea, Sebastian cuts him off. He looks cheerfully at Chris, whose momentarily stunned expression is reflected in his blue-gray eyes. He smirks, “I’m fooling with you.”_ _

__“Er, I mean, we can dash to the restaurant on the street opposite. We can have our lunch there and wait for the rain to stop. The pie in Starbucks isn’t exactly filling,” Chris wiggles his brows, warning him. “You better pray that cute Dodger won’t pay extra attention on your balls when you go to my place.”_ _

__“You badmouth about me to Dodger?” says Sebastian as he stands up, coffee in his hand._ _

__“Trust me, I will,” Chris smirks, putting on his baseball cap. “And let him know how hot you are.”_ _

__“Yeah, right,” Sebastian shoots him a glance. “Do you know people want to drive on your pecs?”_ _

__“What about you?” Chris’ blue eyes stares at him, beautiful blues like the layer of glistening blue on the ocean surface when icebergs melt. “When are you gonna get a driver’s license?”_ _

__Sebastian doesn’t say a word. He walks to the door with Chris next to him, the back of their hands grazing against each other accidentally. When he opens the door, Chris asks Sebastian gravely, “Ready?”_ _

__Sebastian only nods. His silence echoes his helplessness when he receives the text messages, his astonishment when he hears Chris’ voice on the other end of the call. A web page that’s refreshed repeatedly only to return to the error page._ _

__The downpour is horrendous, Sebastian and Chris run in the streets without any shelter. Pedestrians are busy keeping their heads down, taking cover under their umbrellas, car drivers are only concerned if their windscreen wipers are wiping rainwater off their windscreens. That’s a good thing. No one cares if the two men braving the rain are Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan on the silver screen; to anyone, they’re just two stupid fools who refuse to find shelter from the rain. That suits Sebastian’s expectations. Overlooked, obscure, isolated; his closeted secret._ _

__“I hope this doesn’t discredit Bucky,” complains Sebastian as he runs._ _

__“What?” Chris manages to catch the last syllabus in the rain. “They’re not like us, Steve would use his shield to shelter himself and Bucky from the rain!”_ _

__

__Infatuation is the serene blue on the surface of the ocean. It’s the chill and pain when rain hits on your body. It’s closeted. It’s Chris Evans._ _

__It’s the reply that Sebastian is always editing but constantly deletes until there’s nothing left but emptiness._ _

__Sebastian really thought the messages that Chris sent were for group chats. Once, he and some friends had set up a little table on the lawn to play Texas cards; he’d also invite Anthony, who was also on a break, over. When he was passing out the beers, he mentioned the message that Chris had sent the day before—he was positive that one was for group chats—complaining about getting a little sick from the green juice he’d had when he landed in New York. Chris was in New York for a day and had returned to Boston in the evening. Sebastian didn’t meet him, didn’t return his messages; he thought Anthony must have had sent him some brilliant replies and comments._ _

__“Tell me,” Sebastian’s eyes were squinting against the glaring summer sun of New York; he was cooking under the sweltering heat, sweating like a pig. He quickly put his hand into the ice-filled container and wiped his face with the ice cold water. “Who on earth drink green juice when they just landed?”_ _

__Anthony looked confused, instead of answering Sebastian’s question, he asked perplexedly, “Dude’s in New York?”_ _

__It’d be redundant to dwell on that subject._ _

__Sebastian suddenly realized those messages from the one same person were also sent to one same person, and only that person. The weather was too hot, he felt even his eyes were sweating, so he blinked and changed the topic to Chris newly acquired pet dog._ _

__

__Chris likes dogs, he’s always telling Sebastian about his dogs: East and Dodger, stupidly adorable puppies. And then he would ask Sebastian relentlessly if he likes dogs. Does he like bulldogs? Does he like East? Does he like Dodger?_ _

__Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._ _

___What else can I say?_ wonders Sebastian, _I’m allergic to cats, and you happened to like dogs_._ _

__When Chris first brought Dodger home, Sebastian was taking a nap on the couch in his own apartment; he’d not even taken off his coat. His cellphone on the coffee table buzzed and he woke up with a start, almost falling off the couch when he rolled over to pick up his phone. He’d knocked his forehead against the corner of the table, blurring his vision for a moment. He put his hand on his head for a while to calm down before unlocking his phone. It was a notification for a new message._ _

__A video. A little yellow and white puppy running in circles, in the background was a voice saying, “Sit, Dodger,” and the puppy sat down, wagging its tail._ _

__The caption was: Hi._ _

__Sebastian knew immediately, without thinking, it was from Chris. He played the video again to make sure it was indeed from Chris._ _

___Data is expensive._ _ _

__Sebastian had just replied _good to see you_ , and he got a call from Chris immediately._ _

__The generic ringtone rang in the living room, as unexpected as lightning across the sky. Sebastian stared at Chris’ name blinking on the screen; he was breathless as if his heart was coated with a thick layer of condensed milk. But he and Chris had promised each other “I’m with you till the end of the line,” why was he still nervous over something so trivial?_ _

__Sebastian tapped the answer button and, without greeting, asked Chris why didn’t he post the video on Twitter or other social media._ _

__It was a bad opening._ _

__And Sebastian regretted that immediately. He wondered if ending the call and starting all over again would be better. Or maybe he needed a time machine._ _

__Chris went quiet on the other end; Sebastian only heard the sound of breathing and the barking of the puppy._ _

__“But I only wanted to share it with you,” said Chris._ _

__Sebastian’s throat went dry. He began to suspect if he was surrounded by carbon dioxide, the lack of oxygen made it difficult for him to think. He needed ice water, ice cream with Oreo crumbs, AC under zero degrees Fahrenheit. No, a freezer would be more suitable, he needed everything that would allow him to cool himself down from the heat. He felt he was going to have a heatstroke._ _

__Chris said, “His name is Dodger. Need me to spell it? D, O, D, G—Hey, get off me, Dodger! No, no, no, not on that couch! Oh, my god…” And the phone hung up hastily. It sounded like Dodger had spilled some milk. Chris was flustered, he didn’t even manage to apologize or say talk to you later._ _

__It was fine. It’d started without reason and ended in a flurry._ _

__

__They’re entirely soaked by the time they run into the restaurant. The thoughtful waiter gives them towels to wipe themselves dry._ _

__“Okay, I admit, this is really a bad idea,” says Chris as he rubs his wet hair (he’s like a huge golden retriever, Sebastian thinks to himself as he looks at Chris’ innocent expression). “So lunch is on me.”_ _

__Sebastian looks through the menu and says this should not be taken as a precedent._ _

__The owner of the restaurant is Chris’ friend; apart from what they’ve ordered, he also offers them two slices of cake on the house._ _

__“Limited edition,” Chris hands the dessert fork to Sebastian. “Other than the baked rice that I recommended, this is the next best thing on their menu, but availability is limited.”_ _

__Sebastian takes the fork and bites into a small piece of the cake. Exquisite chocolate melts on the tip of his tongue; he suddenly wants to see Dodger._ _

__“You can swipe through the pictures,” Chris opens the album on his phone and tosses the device to Sebastian. The latter looks through the unorganized pictures: sunsets in Boston, the lawn at Chris’ house, rivers and creeks, Chris’ nephews and niece, and Dodger._ _

__Chris allows him to rifles through the album, it’s like giving him an actual key into his life._ _

__A notification for a new message buzzes, Sebastian hands the phone to Chris, a little embarrassed, and says, “A message, er, from Mackie.”_ _

__Chris is tackling his steak with fork and knife, he jerks his chin gesturing Sebastian to take the phone. Chewing on his steak, he asks vaguely, “What does it say?”_ _

__Sebastian opens the message and reads, “Pickled cucumber dipped in mustard holds hands with bitter gourd juice, watching the sunset… What does that even mean?”_ _

__“Help me reply. Fuck your pickled cucumber, that’s not even one percent as good as the ending I wrote,” Chris watches Sebastian taps the send button. “Thanks. It’s a joke. I’ll send it to you when our argument comes to a conclusion.”_ _

__See, Anthony is better with jokes._ _

__When he taps the return button, it’s unavoidable that he sees the message box. Aside from the latest message from Anthony, the rest are Sebastian’s name._ _

__Then he returns the cellphone to Chris._ _

__He has difficulties understanding many things, for example, the vastly different styles of Matthew Barney and Joseph Beuys. For example, when he is with Chris Evans. He’s once thought he was no difference from performance art._ _

__His closeted feelings for Chris is performance art, it’s out there, way ahead of the headlines in entertainment news and significant events in Hollywood; no one could see it, no one could decipher it._ _

__

__Chris is talking to him, from another victory of the Patriots to the maddening Presidential election._ _

__“I totally lost my appetite,” Chris frowns when he talks about it._ _

__Chris is concerned about the event, isn’t afraid to voice his thoughts. Sebastian knows that, of course; he shares the same political stand as Chris. He’s read every single word of Chris’ tweets and tapped the little heart button._ _

__But the topic changes rapidly, and Chris is talking about the terrible weather, the bumpy roads in Hollywood._ _

__“But that’s Hollywood for you,” Sebastian shrugs; he’s almost finished his cake. “What else can we do?”_ _

__Chris pauses for a while and then chuckles, “You’re right, there’s always something shady going on. That’s why everyone here wears shades.”_ _

__“But America is asking for a boyfriend for Captain America,” Sebastian laughs with Chris for no reasons. It’s odd but Sebastian thinks he always laughs at the weirdest thing, such as Chris._ _

__“That’s not shady,” Chris obviously knows about it; his eyes widens. “That’s legit.”_ _

__If there’s a typewriter now, Sebastian wants to document Chris’ expressions using the protruding keys. Black prints line up on a piece of white paper; tap, tap, tap, the rhythmic drumming of the keys and the rustling of the paper when it turns outward leave traces, like a pebble thrown against a window, a chisel chipped into a tree._ _

__Chris is sexy when he talks, earnest eyes look at Sebastian, laughter erupts in between sentences. Like nebula; a blink of the eyes and the eyelashes raise a rush of currents. If it was a hurricane, Sebastian must be in the epicenter. Sebastian wants to taste his lips, Chris’ lower lip is more supple, and he wonders if it feels like jelly._ _

__They’ve known each other for almost seven years. They were in their twenties seven years ago, and now they’re in their thirties._ _

__Sebastian stares at Chris’ bushy beard, the curl of his lips, his nebulas eyes, his neat hair, and his body that’s wrapped in a thin t-shirt. Hidden hormones, overloaded dopamine._ _

__Has he ever told Chris he likes space, too? He’s wondered if Chris has seen _The Martian_ ; he’s been agonizing over that since it opened in North America._ _

_Hey, are you free? I want to take you to my new movie._

_Seen any movies recently? I know a theater that has the best popcorn._

_Chris, long time no see. Do you like Matt Damon? Or Ridley Scott? Those guys are amazing!_

__Wrong, nope, no can’t do. Sebastian spent a long time editing the messages only to realize they were too pretentious. He saved the messages in his drafts, then deleted them one by one. His scenes in the movie can be counted in minutes, but to be honest, he genuinely liked the production. Very much._ _

__He wanted Chris to like it, too. Like how Mark Watney notices that green sprout accidentally. Like miracle-worn Ulysses discovering Ithaca. But there’s no poetry, neither is there art; even an ordinary dialogue would make Sebastian feel like he’s facing an army._ _

__In the end, Sebastian had almost forgotten all about it. He was buttering his skillet, frying his eggs; on the plate next to the stove were two pieces of toasts. The sun was nice and bright; it was a pleasantly warm morning._ _

__Then the cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Sebastian took out his phone._ _

_**You know I went to see The Martian? ;)** _

_**The movie is amazing… I mean, absofuckinglutely amazing. Scott is a genius!** _

_**Hey, you looked so cool in an astronaut suit. I remember I couldn’t go to the bathroom when I was wearing one… oh, and Captain America’s costume, too.** _

_**Why am I always wearing costumes that are inconvenient for peeing?** _

__That’s how Chris is. Once he starts chatting he would split the topic into several messages, as though he has a lot to say. Sebastian was too attentive reading the messages, he guffawed at the last one, already picturing Chris’ unhappy face while he was considering the question. He would probably speak in that typical Bostonian accent, a long drawl, as if asking for affection. Or like a golden retriever, rubbing against his legs, eager for a hug._ _

__Sebastian forgot to flip the eggs, and by the time he’d noticed the problem, the hot butter had splattered on his arms. He winced and dropped his eggs hurriedly on the toasts. The burnt on his arms were slightly red. He didn’t know if it was the pain or something else but he looked at the messages and recalled his hesitant drafts from a few days ago, and his heartbeat accelerated, his breaths became shallow, his ears felt like they were simmering in boiling water. His legs were wobbly as though he’d just recovered from a prolonged illness; he only managed to restrain his smile by biting his lips, his fingers were shaking when he put his cell phone back in his pocket._ _

__He doesn’t how he should feel when he’s infatuated with someone._ _

__He’s positive about one thing though, being infatuated with Chris Evans is a serious illness. His anxiety is everywhere, unavoidable, from his heart to his blood to his brain cells. The suffocating feeling that someone has stepped on his oxygen tube. An abrupt thunderstorm; the sky clears up when the sun bursts through the dark clouds, then another abrupt thunderstorm._ _

__

__Chris gets excited when he’s talking about things he likes, and he won’t stop. His radiates a glow of uncompromising seriousness from head to toe; youthful and handsome. He had once gone to a game with Sebastian._ _

__Sebastian had just landed in Boston and was immediately dragged into Chris’ car, his luggage rattled in the car boot all the way to the stadium. An exhilarated Chris told Sebastian he’d managed to grab two tickets to a game; the seats were awesome._ _

__Sebastian didn't care much about football. When he first arrived in the States when he was a kid, he’d once considered the outfit of the players comical; but he was easily excited by the atmosphere on the field. The moment they stepped into the stadium, Chris began to share this and that with him incessantly; Sebastian didn’t register a single word. He cheered at the top of his voice with Chris, slapped Chris’ thigh excitedly when the team scored._ _

__“Ow!” Chris put a protective hand on his thigh. “That hurts!”_ _

__“Sorry, sorry,” Sebastian apologized insincerely, placating Chris by running his hand on his thigh absentmindedly, all the while fixing his gaze on the movements of the players in the field. They were playing on home ground, the players gave their all._ _

__When the game ended and the result was announced, the stadium went ballistic; Chris’ team was clearly the winner. Exhilarating music played in the background, everyone cheered and hugged. Chris embraced Sebastian tightly, his arms encircled Sebastian’s back, his chest pressed against Sebastian’s; a deep ocean that Sebastian would drown himself in._ _

__Chris’ beard scratched Sebastian’s neck red. The figure that was hugging him was muscular and strong._ _

__Why are there no kiss cam at football games? What a waste of amazing images._ _

__If there was a kiss cam, where should he start kissing? Perhaps from Chris annoyingly long eyelashes? If possible, could they hang a mistletoe above their heads?_ _

__

__“Seb, Seb,” Chris is calling his name again. He’s talking about Captain America and his best friend, Bucky. He always has several terms of endearment for Sebastian, just like Steve Rogers._ _

__Sebastian likes it when Chris says his name or Bucky’s name. Chris is unable to differentiate some things, for instance, Scarlett and her stuntwoman, Anthony’s coffee mug and his vase (neither could Sebastian see the difference; Anthony uses a coffee mug for his flowers), soundstage A and soundstage B, and Sebastian and Bucky. Chris has mentioned, on several occasions, Sebastian’s name, when in fact, he was talking about Bucky, and he hasn’t noticed that himself._ _

__Barnes, Bucky, Buck, Sebastian, Seb, Sebby… Sebby._ _

__Accompanied by the scent of peppermint, vanilla and yuzu tea, charred ceiba, and burning tobacco._ _

__

__“Any plans later?” Chris asks._ _

__“Visiting a friend,” says Sebastian. Actually, he hasn’t any plans at all, but he feels the need to be alone out of a sudden. The AC at 80 degrees, talk shows, Oreos, or masturbating while thinking about Chris. He’s done that before, just like every teenage boy who fantasizes about passionate and sizzling sex._ _

__“Need a ride?” Chris spreads his hands. “I mean, I’ve no plans for the rest of the day, except give Dodger a shower. It’s raining, he’s definitely rolled in some mud… I don’t even wanna think about my carpet!”_ _

__“I’m good.” Sebastian waves; he’s more familiar with turning down Chris’ offers than accepting them. “My friend’s coming to pick me up.”_ _

__Chris only quirks his brow. He runs his hand through his messy hair; the rain doesn’t seem to abate._ _

__“My car’s in the parking lot,” Chris takes care of the check. “It’s not too far… Sure you don’t want a ride?”_ _

__“Nah, I’m good,” Sebastian takes the receipt before Chris turns around, and follows him to the door. “I’ll just wait here for a while.”_ _

__Chris looks at him nonchalantly, as if waiting for him to change his mind. Eventually, he sighs, opens the door and waves at Sebastian who’s standing under the eave. “See you tomorrow, Seb.”_ _

__Sebastian watches as he runs off in the rain. Chris said _see you tomorrow_ , not see you later, not goodbye._ _

__

__In the end, Sebastian chooses not to wait for the rain to stop, he just wants to get back to that small apartment. He has an apartment in LA, it’s not big; he’s only here for two nights anyway._ _

__Being caught in the rain is awful. Raindrops fall on his hair, into his eyes, on his lips, sliding down his neck into his shirt; as if he’s taking a shower._ _

__As if he’s killing himself slowly._ _

__Sebastian can feel his just recovered flu returning again. Shivering, he runs past shops with their doors opened, AC emitting temperature as cold as the freezer._ _

__The cabs speeding past him are occupied, none of them stopped for him; not even when he’s holding a bill in his hand. Uber… _fuck_ , Sebastian spats. He’s just deleted the app._ _

__Sebastian’s drenched to the bones, his bill soaked. The weather is an over-flooded river, everything is wet and rotting._ _

__Sebastian finally finds a bus-stop, he takes shelter there, waiting for the bus. He wants to know where the hell has Chris brought him to; the bus doesn’t seem to come at all._ _

__There’s an ice cream shop behind the bus-stop, Sebastian had seen one of those in New York. He’d just left a birthday celebration that lasted the entire night at the time, caffeine and alcohol rushing through his blood, screaming. He wandered alone in the streets, a little tired but he didn’t feel like sleeping, so he put on his earphones, walked through Central Park, passed by joggers and, after some twists and turns, found the ice cream shop._ _

__Sebastian looks out at the road; the bus probably won’t come any moment. He walks around the route board and goes into the shop. He’s holding a big tub of ice-cream in his hand when he comes out._ _

__On the ice cream is a thick layer of crushed ice, then a layer of blueberry sauce. Sebastian never conceals his love for blueberries. One time, blueberry juice was served on the set; he was lying on his chair, wearing his sunglasses, biting on the straw._ _

__“Sometimes I think you’re here for vacation,” Anthony had just finished one scene. He rolled his shoulders and sat down next to Sebastian._ _

__Chris also walked over._ _

__And the sunglasses resting on Sebastian’s nose bridge was taken away. Chris’ fingers grazed against the tip of Sebastian’s nose, it was unbearably uncomfortable like pollen allergy._ _

__When Sebastian opened his eyes, Chris was sitting next to him, playing with his sunglasses. He was bitting on an ice cream, a little fan slogging away on his thighs. Smiling, Chris said, “Sebastian has the ability to transform the set into Santa Monica beach. Waves, sand, sunshades, bikinis. Damn.”_ _

__“Too bad there’re no beautiful women in bikinis in sight, only the Winter Soldier,” Sebastian stared at the ice cream as Chris sucked on the softened cream; snow-capped mountains melting. “If you don’t mind, I can play Victoria’s Secret for you. I’ve saved quite a few.”_ _

__“Really?” Chris leaned closer to Sebastian with affected interest, the close proximity only made the already humid air more oppressive. Sebastian licked his lips and took out his cellphone to search for the videos._ _

__He did have them saved. Chris guffawed, falling on Sebastian; the heat and Sebastian’s breath mingled and simmered into a glob of malt sugar. Sebastian wanted to say _stay away from me, your ice cream is melting and it’s dripping on me_. He didn’t want his all-black costume covered with ice cream stains and go from the Weiner Soldier to the Ice cream Soldier. But he couldn’t say it out loud, all his words were shoved back to his throat by a sudden bout of thirst and dizziness, as excruciating as a mermaid walking on land._ _

__When Chris and Sebastian were arguing who was the hottest between Gisele and Lima, Chris raised his hands in surrender. “OK, OK, no matter what, I gotta admit Candice is a sweetheart.”_ _

__“I’d rather watch _America’s Next Top Model_. Girls love my chocolate pecs,” sitting next to them, Anthony rolled his eyes. “I gotta take my hat off to you two. The fact that two real life buddies are able to portray an intimate relationship as if they’ve already fucked. On behalf of Steve and Bucky, I thank you for your professionalism.”_ _

__Buddies? Sebastian was surprised when he heard the word. He and Chris were, at most, friendly co-workers who’d spent a few months shooting a movie together; but he suddenly didn’t understand the definition of buddies._ _

__“Art imitates life,” Anthony nodded his head with pretentious profoundness. “You guys put art above life, obviously.”_ _

__

__By the time Sebastian takes the fifth mouthful of his ice-cream, he sneezes successfully. The poky bus-stop is inadequate to protect him from the rain. He insists on swallowing the slushie, it feels like a blunt cut when it slides down his throat._ _

__The bus finally arrives. Sebastian gets back to his apartment, leaving a trail of water behind him when he enters. He’s too exhausted to take a shower, choosing to lie down in bed after toweling himself dry._ _

__He turns on the small tv in his bedroom and settles for a talk show. The host is talking so fast all his words are welded together. The show makes him drowsy, he plops his head on the pillow before his hair is even dry. The tiny apartment comes with a thin mattress and a hard bed plank; it’s not much different from sleeping on the floor if not for the comforter on him. He hears the vibration of his cellphone, and the notification ringtone that his internal storage is full._ _

__The receipts from the restaurant and from purchasing the ice-cream are soaked, crumpled into a ball and thrown into the waste basket. Sebastian’s too lazy to delete his saved messages; Chris has occupied his cellphone, his mind and all the vacant space in his heart, but still it’s not enough._ _

__And every time when Sebastian thinks about it, he finds, sadly, there’s nothing that he can leave for Chris. His internal storage is full, has exceeded maximum memory, is overloaded. Their relationship, all of Sebastian’s closeted thoughts seemed to be captured by a camera. The camera changes its positions, pushing and pulling and panning, wasting rolls and rolls of film without restraint. With one shot taken, there’s one less shot to take. Sebastian thinks he might as well compile it into _Four Minutes and Thirty-three seconds_ ; four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence, from oblivious to baffled, then distress, then losing his patience entirely and, eventually, taking the plunge with disregard of the consequences._ _

__Sometimes Sebastian wants to ask Chris what he’s thinking about. The number of messages Chris sent him is almost the same as the number of messages he hasn’t replied, but Chris continues to text him. From today’s sun to catching a fish. Does he consider Sebastian as a tree hole, or a teddy bear to which he spills all his thoughts before he sleeps, without fearing his secrets would be told?_ _

__The king grows a pair of donkey ears._ _

Before succumbing to sleep, Sebastian recalls all the moment when Chris is intimately close to him: in his dreams, in reality, at the juncture of reality and dream, where cold and warm currents meet, rushing sprays and mists, a certain hour at the change of seasons, the meridian line of Greenwich. Chris wrapped an arm around his shoulder to take pictures, smiling at the journalists, blinking at the cameras and said, _Sebastian, a great guy. The sweetest kid on the planet._ When Chris hugged him, his breaths were warm and his eyes were soft when he pressed Sebastian against the wall as they laughed together.

Chris said, _Sebastian Stan, I love you, and it’s driving me crazy_.

__And Sebastian only remembers all the strength in him seemed to have left him when in fact, his muscles had tensed up and, little by the little, the oxygen in his lungs were compressed and exhausted, his blood was clotted and he struggled to breathe as if on the verge of death. Heat spread from the tips of his ears to his neck. He was thirsty and restless. He felt like he had been sick for many years and he was dying. But he pretended everything was normal as usual, hoping Chris wouldn’t notice all his symptoms. He kicked Chris and said, with a grin, “You’re as straight as the flag pole outside the UN building, go play with your balls.”_ _

Feeling hurt, Chris slung an arm around Sebastian’s neck and said, _that’s why I’m crazy_ , and laughed as if nothing had happened.

__Perhaps to Chris, an infatuation is just a whim, but to Sebastian, it’s an illness, and the prolonged illness has yet to make him a doctor of a patient._ _

__

__Sebastian is woken up by the deafening sound of someone knocking on his door. His head is splitting, his back hurts from sleeping on the hard bed plank. Drowsily, in his PJ, he goes to open the door; the knockings sound fuzzy in his ears._ _

__He’s barely opened the door and Chris is already grabbing his shoulders. “I almost called the cops!”_ _

__“Huh?” Sebastian looks at him bewilderedly, but his eyes can’t seem to focus. He blinks with effort, unable to even exchange greetings._ _

__“I can’t get through your phone,” Chris looks overly worried, his brows are tightly knitted, his lips are pursed, even his forehead is dotted with a fine film of perspiration._ _

__“Oh.” Sebastian yawns, looking very frail. He goes back to his bedroom, flops down onto his bed and waves his cell phone as he picks it up. “Battery’s dead.”_ _

__Chris sits on the bed as a matter of factly, he looks at Sebastian and, after a pause, asks, “Are you okay?”_ _

__Sebastian waves his hand vaguely; he hadn’t expected to sleep through the day and wake up the next morning. Now that he’s up, he’s conscious of his hunger, his stomach a stirring mess. He ignores the question and asks directly, “How did you find me?”_ _

__“It’s a little complicated. You didn’t pick up your phone for three hours straight, didn’t return my messages… okay, it’s normal you don’t text me back. Mackie told me that you hardly text him back, that makes me feel so much better. I asked Scott, and Scott asked your friends, and now I’m here.” Chris explains solemnly. He reaches out his hand to feel Sebastian’s forehead, and the knot between his brows draws tighter. “Your forehead is so hot I could make a steak over it.”_ _

__And then Sebastian is forced to lie in bed with a thermometer in his mouth (he has no other choice because Chris’ strength around his wrists is too strong) and he even manages to say _fuck you Chris how could you do that to me when you’ve just stepped into my house_ through the thermometer._ _

__“What else can I do?” Chris arches his brow. “Clean up the mess for you, organize the books strewn everywhere, and the pizza boxes, and the Dolce and Gabanna, and Calvin Klein underwear on the couch. Five bucks per hour?”_ _

__“Well, since you’re a Hollywood superstar, I can give you ten bucks,” Sebastian chuckles as he says, the thermometer almost falls out of his mouth. He even gesticulates, trying to demonstrate how super Chris is with his hands; but Chris only holds his wrists even tighter. He pouts, patting Chris’ face as he says, “It’s all because of your pretty face, babe.”_ _

__Chris takes out the thermometer, reads the temperature and sighs, “You have a high fever.”_ _

__“Oh.” Sebastian nods insouciantly._ _

__“What stupid thing have you done?” Chris is irate. “You were fine when I had lunch with you yesterday.”_ _

__“Rain. Ice cream,” Sebastian shrugs. “But listen, that ice-cream was amazing. I even got a membership card, if you want…”_ _

__Chris just pushes him under the comforter and adds an extra layer. Ruffling Sebastian’s hair, he says, “I’m gonna get you some ibuprofen, don’t go anywhere.”_ _

___I never go anywhere._ Before Sebastian can say anything in retort, Chris has already closed the door._ _

__

__When Chris returns, Sebastian is fast asleep under the comforters. He shudders at the freezing temperature of the AC the moment he steps into the room and turns if off immediately._ _

__“But it’s too warm…” says Sebastian innocently. “Two layers of comforters.”_ _

__“I think you’re trying to kill yourself.” Chris tosses the remote on the bed. “60 degrees? Are you serious?”_ _

__Sebastian has never seen Chris so infuriated; not even at the criticisms in the newspapers, the vexatious reviews, the election and the football team. Chris brings him a glass of warm water and tips the white pills into his palms. Sebastian can’t even open his eyes, he takes a sip of the water while Chris holds the glass for him, and swallows the pills and then takes another sip. Chris is wearing cologne, he can smell it; too bad his brain is not working properly at the moment. He has once spent an entire day trying to analyze the top note of Chris’ cologne, and he’s even licked Chris’ palm when he’s taking the pills._ _

__That’s shameless; Sebastian feels Chris’ palm flinching slightly._ _

__Oh, it’s no big deal. They can’t be seen anyway._ _

__“Thank god you have hot water,” says Chris. “What do you wanna eat? I’ll make it for you.”_ _

__“Fried ham,” croaks Sebastian. “There’s a sandwich in the fridge, warm it in the microwave. Thanks, sweetheart.”_ _

__The apartment is too small, so small that Sebastian, lying in bed, can see Chris busies himself in the kitchen through the opened door of the bedroom. The way he works around the kitchen is really… really. Sebastian realizes he can’t even find the word._ _

__What else can he say? Chris is always gentle and strong. The way he looks when he’s serious, when he talks to Sebastian, even the way he puts his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, his back, his waist; everything he does only make Sebastian feverish all over again._ _

__The time when he dyed his hair blond for a movie, recalls Sebastian, Chris had asked him to send a picture over._ _

_**Hey man, it’s just blond hair. Just lemme have a look.** _

__Sebastian put it off repeatedly and refused to send him the picture. Eventually, in May, he said to Chris, _go have a look_._ _

_**What?** _

_Instagram._

__And Chris opened the app at the corner of his cellphone screen. He has an account that only follows Sebastian, and his own brother; he doesn’t post anything. No one knows that’s Chris, it’s just as closeted as Sebastian’s thoughts._ _

__Sebastian waited for four hours after sending the message. He knows Chris has an account, but he doesn’t follow it. After all, following an account with zero posts and zero followers would only raise suspicions. Then he scrolled through the thousands of likes until his eyes were sore, and he finally found the little heart from that account._ _

_**You’re an asshole, Sebastian.** _

__Chris texted him._ _

_**And why is your crotch wet?** _

__

__They say one tends to think a lot when one is sick. Sebastian also recalls many other things. He and Chris were at the Four Seasons, Chris had come to California from Massachusetts; Sebastian was filming there._ _

__Chris was blowing drying Sebastian’s hair. Sitting on the long couch in the room, Sebastian closed his eyes when Chris’ fingers carded through his hair. Chris insisted on helping Sebastian dry his hair although the latter had assured him gazillion times that his hands were very much capable of doing that, thank you very much._ _

__Then Chris hugged him from behind, and Sebastian lost his balance and fell into Chris’ chest on his back. Chris kissed the shell of his ear, his neck, the corner of his lips, tickling him with his hair and scruff. Sebastian heard the hairdryer being turned off, and the sounds of heartbeats, or maybe pulses; he couldn’t tell. Chris’ kiss was the keynote of tequila. Tequila Sunrise, pomegranate syrup and, tequila fused and formed blazing clouds. It was blazing indeed, Sebastian felt the scorching heat, from East coast to West coast, and sand and dust. The dizzy top note of a perfume, and the lingering base note.The middle note was the taste of Chris when he kissed him._ _

__“I like you, Sebastian,” Chris said in his ears._ _

__Who was going to save him and tell him it wasn’t a dream; it was real._ _

__Or had God given him a script, highlighting his clumsy acting with a ludicrous storyline?_ _

__“I love you,” said Chris._ _

___And you make me breathless, make me nervous, make me light sensitive; even to camera lights. Have you tried being a vampire before? The kind that can’t be seen in daylight. You asked me if I was one of the vampires from Romania._ _ _

___I am. I’m a sickly vampire because of Chris Evans._ _ _

__

__Sebastian takes the plate from Chris._ _

__He looks at Chris. One mouthful after another, he finishes the ham and the sandwich in his plate; they’re unbearably tasteless like wax. The cheese makes him queasy, like the green juice Chris had when he landed._ _

__Chris looks satisfied. The way he looks when he does the dishes reminds Sebastian of _Fifty Shades of Gray_ for a good ten minutes._ _

__What’s it like to have an infatuation for someone?_ _

__It’s the happiness that swelled within Sebastian when he saw the account with zero followers has followed him; one million followers is incomparable to that._ _

__Sebastian is very popular. Rows upon rows of hearts would appear in the comment whenever he posts a new picture. Chase has once said, “Going to your Instagram account is like stepping into a river of love.”_ _

__Occasionally he would see that anonymous account. Occasionally, meaning, on very rare occasions._ _

__That anonymous account would leave a comment like the many followers: luv u._ _

__Luv U. Love You. Love you, Seb. I love you, Sebastian._ _

__And Sebastian would reply _I love you all_ , and include an emoji. And then very quietly in his heart, adds _especially you_._ _

__He has a stubborn love for things he’s had for a long time, such as the chipped mug he refuses to throw away, the pair of deliberately rugged shoes, t-shirts, caps, and Chris._ _

_**Hey, Seb, are you still in LA? Wanna have a drink?** _

_**Does your head still hurt? I’m in New York for an event.** _

_**Mustard grilled cheese sandwich is terrible.** _

_**I’m thirsty but I’ve finished all my water.** _

_**Why is coffee from food trucks always so sweet?** _

_**I love you.** _

_**I’m serious. I mean, I’m serious about the last text. I swear I’m not drinking. OK, I had a little, just a little. But whether I’m sober or drunk, you never believe me.** _

__Sebastian copies the messages one by one: time, sender, addressee, content. He moves everything to his Notes. At the beginning, he only wants to organize his storage; but after the housekeeping, he realizes he can’t bear to delete the messages._ _

__He stops at the last two messages, he just can’t press copy. He feels lightheaded. The words are scorching, red-hot as though bringing a burn after reading letter near a flame._ _

__He stares at the messages for a long time until his eyes are tired. He touches the screen when it dims down, stares at it until it dims again._ _

__Someone is knocking at the door. Tap, tap, tap. Like the keys of a typewriter._ _

__Very slowly, Sebastian gets up from the couch, walks around the coffee table (Chris did dispose the pizza box for him last time), and stands at the door._ _

__He turns the knob and opens the door._ _

__“You never return my messages,” Chris is standing outside the door, voicing his complaint the moment he sees Sebastian. “It’s been almost seven years, the money I spent on the text messages is enough to buy a studio apartment with sea view.”_ _

__Sebastian doesn’t say a word; he isn’t given the opportunity. Chris wraps him in his arms tightly, so tight he can barely breathe. Chris is travel worn, exhausted and happy. Perspiration-wet hair, slightly husky voice; a fire blazing in the wilderness. Sebastian thinks of what’s written in that book. _Three of the four elements are shared by all creatures, but fire was a gift to humans alone._ He needs a cigarette._ _

__“I was in New York for such a long time but you weren’t there,” burying his face in the crook of Sebastian’s neck, Chris says miserably. “Are you going to retire in L.A.?”_ _

__What’s it like to have an infatuation for someone?_ _

__It’s too late for Sebastian to think about that. Chris is kissing him. He’s stepped into the apartment the moment the door is closed. He kisses Sebastian the way the brunet has imagined kissing him: eyelashes, nose tip, the corner of his lips._ _

__Chris’ kiss is like Scotland highland dance, made up of the bitter fragrance of herbal alcohol. He kisses Sebastian the way he sucks on that melting ice cream. Crushing their lips together, Sebastian closes his eyes before he can look into Chris’. His heart is swelling, perspiration dotting the tip of his nose._ _

__Sebastian couldn’t help but exclaim once again the bed plank is too hard. He feels as though his back is pressed against the rocks on the beach when he lies down._ _

__“What are you afraid of?” Chris asks as he peels Sebastian’s arm away from his eyes._ _

__He feels like he’s at the boiling point. He’s struggling in the ocean, and Chris is the last floating wood that allows him to catch his breath._ _

__“Look at me, Sebby,” when Chris enters him, he kisses Sebastian’s calf as if that’s how they should have been; two souls become one, fire and wood, a matter of course._ _

__Chris never calls him Sebby in his text messages. He only calls him that ordinarily._ _

__Sebby, Sebby, Sebby. The long drawl. Liquified jam under the summer sun. Honey-filled streams. Sebastian’s blood is surrounded by them all._ _

__“What are you running away from?” Chris’ voice is laced with Sebastian’s broken breaths, intertwined fingers, and tears._ _

__“We have to remain closeted, Chris…” Sebastian stares at him with enormous eyes, misting up. He says softly, “You should fucking know that.”_ _

_**But what’s that gotta do with us?**_ He hears Chris asks. 

_**Fuck Hollywood, which law says we have to remain closeted?** _

__Chris likes to hold him, encompassing him firmly in his embrace, their breaths meshed together. Sebastian is blanketed by Chris’ breaths, from head to toe, every single body cell is permeated with Chris’ scent._ _

__

__Chris leaves early in the morning; he’s come to LA at the last minute and even postponed his shoot for a day. He wakes up in dawn and kisses Sebastian’s lips to say goodbye._ _

__Sebastian hasn’t woken up yet, just lets him ruffles his hair; he couldn’t part with the warm lips._ _

__The door opens gently, then closes. Sebastian rolls over to the other side, the side that’s still warm with the welcoming scent that Chris has left, like a rain-washed morning._ _

__

__Sebastian is woken up by the vibration of his cellphone. He yawns, gets out of bed to wash up and finds breakfast on his dining table._ _

__Chris has left in a hurry; one side of the ham is slightly burnt. Sebastian finishes the unburnt side and checks the latest message while chewing on an egg sandwich._ _

_**I love you. It’s true. I swear I’m alert and sober. Not a single alcohol or nicotine in my systems.** _

__It’s from Chris Evans._ _

__Sebastian takes a bite of his toast and smiles. He recalls Chris rushing back to L.A. from New York yesterday just to see him, just like how he’d rushed to Four Seasons at that time. He’d stood outside the door, looking exhausted, telling Sebastian grievously: you never return my messages._ _

__Sebastian looks at the message. It’s similar to all the messages from Chris; yet different._ _

_We have to remain closeted._

_**It’s one thing to remain closeted; what’s that got to do with us? ******_

_**Fuck Hollywood. Which law says we have to remain closeted?** _

__Sebastian ponders, fingertips typing on the screen, and sends._ _

_If you insist, I’ll trust you just this once._

__Chris has gotten off the plane when he receives the message. A rare one from Sebastian Stan, his co-worker of seven years; a secret he’s hidden in the deepest parts of his heart._ _

__Right after that, another message._ _

_All right, my dear seldom conscious and sober boy, I love you, too._

__Chris stops in his tracks at the airport. He stands there in the throng of the people, grinning from the bottom of his heart._ _

_**Since when did you learn to send several messages for one topic?**_ Chris asks. 

_I picked that up from you. Don’t expect me to sing you praises, asshole._ Sebastian’s reply is instant.

__Love never fails, and never dies._ _

__We remain closeted but love is the ultimate outlaw._ _


End file.
